Playing Nice, Only With Guns
by Apprentice To The Dark Side
Summary: Possibly the most powerful man in the world has a problem, and he wants to hire the best team in the world to solve it. So who does he get? Well, the A-Team; that's a given. But he also hires three ex-SEALS, all women. This might get messy.
1. Chapter 1: Looking For A Job

The old warehouse was damp and echoic, the dusty windowpanes blocking out the lush sound of the gray drizzle whispering against the grimy streets. Industrial strength lights hung unused from the ceiling, and old crates, a few covered by tarps, dotted the landscape. A truck _sans_ tires was propped up on cinderblocks, the hood open and in bad need of a fresh coat of paint. The doors, large and drafty as they were, had been barred off by two-by-fours and locked with some imposing looking chains. The cement was frigidly cold, and the only heat came from a sputtering, gasoline-fueled heater in one corner. A scarred, lopsided card table was covered in a blue-checkered tablecloth at a faint attempt for niceties, and a crumpled _Cosmopolitan _was open in one corner. A sturdy, thickset workbench was pressed against the wall, covered with greasy tools, manuals, wires, and the usual jumble of flotsam and jetsam which washes up on a workbench. A rectangular light swung squeakily overhead, shedding a dreary, pale area of light which illuminated the curious gathering of women beneath it.

A small, petite blonde woman who couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds soaking wet, was artfully painting her nails on a rickety chair, the cloudy blue liquid streaking across her small toes. An ankle tattoo spiraled out of sight beneath her pants leg, and her long blonde hair feathered around her small, pale face. Her bangs hung in her eyes, cut straight across, and she was the only girl out of the three who had on makeup. The makeup itself was neatly done, with blue glitter mascara and aqua eyeliner, and lipstick which could stand to be blotted. Her fragility showed through in her fine wrists and ankles, and the long-sleeved gray tee shirt she wore sagged on her tiny, petite frame. There was something jittery and nervous despite her pop-princess appearance, and even though her hand was steady, she kept glancing restlessly at the doorway.

The girl next to her was reading the _Cosmopolitan_, squinting in the dim light and passing a long-fingered hand through her dangerously spiked, gelled, and shellacked black hair. It was buzzed very short, except for a spike of black hair twirled artistically on her forehead. A silver nose piercing caught the light when she exhaled, and there was a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Blue smoke curled around her face, shrouding her in an aura of foreboding as she pursued her magazine. Her face was full and plump, a pouting lower lip babying her face and her ominous eyes totally offsetting them. She wore low-riding stonewashed jeans which were ripped pathetically at the hems and jangled with the ring of keys she had perpetually jingling from her belt loop.

Out of the shadows, little grunts and soft noises came, and then another woman emerged, this one taller and more menacing than the first two. Brows which were a shade too thick curved over hooded, silent eyes which were a very light black, almost a charcoal. Despite the raw, damp chill in the air, she wore a grease-stained white undershirt and frayed camouflage pants, a thick black belt keeping the too-large pants secured around her narrow waist. She was built of angles and edges - her shoulders were slightly too broad for her slender hips, and her cheekbones were high and her cheeks slightly hollowed. When she was concentrating, as she was now, her lips were pressed tightly together and those black eyes seemed almost stormy. Her brunette hair was dark and in bad need of a wash, tied back behind her in a loose, snarled ponytail which had concrete dust in it. In her hand, she held a socket wrench, and she slapped this on the card table with a rap which rang out sharply in the empty warehouse.

"Damn, it's cold," The black-haired woman said idly, tapping her cigarette ash onto the table idly. Wordlessly, the blonde pushed over an overflowing ashtray and continued painting her nails, then blew on them to dry.

"Then you go get us a new heater," The blonde said. "Fork over the money and we can quit shivering when it's raining."

The black-haired woman said nothing, but tossed aside her magazine and looked over at the brunette, who was studying her chipped, calloused hands. "Hey, Livvy, when are we gonna hear from those guys who wanted to hire us?" She asked.

Livvy shrugged and reached in her back pocket to withdraw an old-fashioned gray cell phone. Compared to the newer, sleeker models, it was positively chunky, and the screen was in 'sleep' mode. "He'll give us a call on this," she said, and then lapsed into silence again, staring at the wall.

"Wow, we got a whole sentence this time," The blonde remarked. Livvy raised her eyebrows, those hooded, regal eyes sparking with curiosity, and the blonde smiled a little. "You've been so quiet. And you've been working on that truck all week. Got a problem, Liv?"

She shook her head a little, offering a rare smile which leaned casually up the left side of her mouth, a smile which didn't quite reach her eyes. The black-haired girl stubbed out her cigarette and stretched, popping the kinks in her back.

"Well, I could go for some dinner," She said. "What about you, Nats?"

The blonde checked her watch. "It's only three o'clock," She pointed out. The black-haired girl shrugged.

"Who cares? I'm hungry." She said. Natalie rolled her eyes and resumed painting her nails, then capped off the polish and pushed it onto the table.

"You hungry, Olivia?" Natalie asked, and Livvy shook her head, then stood. She wiped her fingers on a dirty rag nearby and tossed it aside, disappearing back into the shadows to go back to her truck. The black-haired woman shook her head and lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter once and then stuffing it back into her pocket.

"She needs to work," She said, half to herself. "Liv goes nuts when she's not working."

"Oh, and what would you know about working, Brose?" Natalie snapped. That queerness in her eyes shook once, and Brose ignored her. "Considering _we_ do all the work."

"Cut it out," Brose said idly, and exhaled a twirl of silver smoke through her fingers. "I do my share."

"Right, when you're not drinking or gambling," Natalie said, her voice icy cold. Brose glowered at her, those glaring hazel eyes hard and flinty.

"I said quit it, Nats," She said, and resumed reading her magazine. "I haven't been to a bar in three days, all right? Happy?"

"You've got a bottle of Jack Daniels in your bag, and a nip of vodka in your pants pocket," Natalie said waspishly, tilting her head back and sticking her nose in the air. "You don't have to go to a bar to get drunk."

"And lo, sober I be," Brose said sarcastically. "Now shut the hell up and tell me what you want to have for dinner. After that, I'm calling it quits and hitting the sack. There's no point waiting up for someone who'll never call."

"He might call," Livvy said from the darkness, and the other two women turned to see those charcoal eyes gleaming passionately from the darkness. There was a subtle edge of hope in her words, a scraggly remnant of faith trimming her tone. "He said within forty eight hours. It's only been forty. He still has all night to contact us."

Brose threw down the magazine again, this time sending it skittering across the floor and out of sight into the darkness. "Face it, Olivia, he's not going to call. We told him it has to be done legally and it'll be slower. He knows that. He'll end up going with some stupid street gang who have a bunch of meatheads who can rough people up."

Livvy swallowed, those hooded eyes lowering for a moment as her hopes sank. She retreated back into the shadows, and Natalie glared at Brose. "Oh, nice going," Natalie hissed.

"What?" Brose asked. "It's true."

"She hasn't said three words to us in a month!" Natalie growled. "Don't go cutting her down again! God, when will you learn to keep your mouth shut?"

The phone on the table rang, the ring tone obnoxiously cheery and the vibration rattling the cheap plastic construction of the table. All three women jumped for it, but with an eerie speed and deftness, Olivia pounced on it first. She took a deep breath and flipped it upwards, sliding it beneath a sheaf of tangled chestnut hair and putting it against her cheek. "Olivia Marks," She said into the receiver.

Almost two thousand miles away, in a pitch-black Washington, D.C., a man leaned back in his chair. He had slicked back brown hair, and frameless glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. A pair of alert brown eyes danced animatedly across his desk, and the slender mobile phone was pressed against his ear. A pen was gripped in his hand, and he clicked it idly while he spoke. "Petty Officer Marks, glad to hear you again," He said, his tones brisk and businesslike. There was a guttural rush of air into the phone, a brush of static against his eardrum.

"It's just Miss Marks, if you'll please," the woman on the other end of the line said. "Discharged two years ago."

The man flipped open the manila file in front of him with one manicured nail, examining it. The girl in the picture had bobbed brown hair and intense brown eyes, brows shading them and her hollowed cheeks giving her an elegant, refined look. She was dressed in her full Navy SEAL regalia, and he saw the telltale stripes on her shoulder, branding her as a captain. Paper-clipped next to her military photo taken three years ago was a completely different woman. The photo was in black-and-white and rather grainy, seeing as it had been snagged by a cheap camera, but the woman here had long, shaggy chestnut hair and wild black eyes. A gun was in her hand and her feet were spread apart, her profile sharp and her narrow face giving her a predatory, haunted aura. "Yes, I apologize," He said, and then steepled his fingers.

"Miss Marks, I'm going to make this very simple. I want you to help me, and I want you to help me _now_. There's a plane landing in Los Angeles airport with three seats on it for Washington, and I want you to be on it in a half an hour. Can you do that for me, Miss Marks?" He asked.

There was a heady pause on the other end, and he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the surprise he felt through the phone and in her next words. She attempted to sound forceful and controlled, but her voice came out shaky and excited. "Sir, you haven't even told me what you want me to do, other than that we'll be in Russia intimidating someone. I don't even know your name." She asked.

"No, you don't, and it's safer that way," He said. "Everything will be explained en route." He paused for a moment, and then said, "By the way, how are you when you collaborate?"

There was a beat of silence, but she recovered quickly. "Sir?" She asked.

"I mean, how many are in your team, how do you operate, can you operate with another team?" He asked, the three questions rattling off his tongue, the holy trinity.

"I have two other members in my team, sir," Olivia said. "Myself, Seaman Ambrosia Jackson, and First Petty Officer Natalie English, sir. We operate in a manner of ways, mostly espionage, intimidation, some undercover work, and a little hacking. We're all competent with weapons, sir, but I prefer not to go into a war zone." She took a ragged little breath - her lungs always seemed to collapse whenever she thought of wars - and licked her lips. "But we do the job quickly, sir, and with as little bloodshed as possible." She waited, and then passed a hand through her hair. "And, uh, we've never worked with other teams before. I prefer to stay with people I know."

There was a low laugh from the other line. "Oh, believe me, you know these people," The man said, looking at the thick stack of files in front of him. "_Everyone_ knows the A-Team. Apparently they're the best, and I want the two best teams possible."

"I'm sorry sir, did you just say the A-Team?" Olivia asked, thunderstruck. "Aren't they…?"

"Rogue? Yes, as a matter of fact," The man said, sounding highly entertained. "But they've agreed to help me, and they don't mind working with others." He waited, judging the correct length of time, and then added, "And if the job is finished quickly and quietly, there'll be at least a hundred grand for each of your team members. I might even be able to get you reinstated, Miss Marks. Just like your friends."

He almost laughed aloud at the stunned silence which greeted him. She had no idea who she was talking with, had no idea that the wealthiest and most powerful man alive was currently hiring her to do his dirty work. After a long, electric pause, he said, "Can you make that flight, Petty Officer?"

The voice which came back was crisp and sharp. "Yes, sir. We can make it."

She snapped the phone shut and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving. Brose and Natalie were both staring at her, on tenterhooks for her to say something. "Well?" Brose sputtered. Olivia jerked her face upwards, and those charcoal eyes were dry and alive, fuller and rife with more emotion than they had seen in the past three months.

"We got ourselves a job, girls," Olivia said, and for an instant she sounded like the cocky gunslinger that they had once known. Brose knocked over her chair as she punched the air, and Natalie whooped with delight.

"For who? What are we doing?" Natalie asked. Olivia snapped the ponytail holder off of her hair and shook her unkempt mane of chestnut hair, glancing at her greasy, smeared clothes. She hadn't taken a shower in weeks, and she looked it, and then kicked off her shoes.

"I have no idea who we're working for, but we'll be in Russia, so pack up warm," She said, heading towards the rear of the building where an icy-cold fire hose served as her shower. "And we'll be working with the A-Team." She shouted, and slammed the door shut behind her.

The elated feeling evaporated like mist on a sidewalk, and Natalie and Brose looked at each other. "The A-Team?" Brose whispered. "They're rogue. Everybody knows they're untouchable. Holy crap, who the hell are we working for?"

09

_A/N: I fully blame Syrtis for mentioning this movie and getting me addicted to it. Not only is Liam Neeson unbelievably sexy and gruff and awesome in it, the whole this is pretty dang hysterical. Anyway, if you don't think I should continue it, I won't. Give me some feedback, guys! Please!_


	2. Chapter 2: The B Team

She couldn't keep herself from smiling as she wrung her dripping hair out, despite the fact that she was freezing cold and soaking wet. A job. They had a job for the first time in weeks. She could get her adrenaline back up, see clearly for once. As she yanked on a clean pair of underwear, she tried unsuccessfully to steady her breathing. It wouldn't do for the girls to see her this excited – but it was hopeless anyway, seeing as they already knew she was addicted to her job. She was just as thoroughly entangled in her addiction of planning and stalking as Ambrosia was addicted to her booze, her parties, and her cigarettes. Although, if any of Brose's plans went wrong, the worst thing that could happen would be waking up the next morning without a sufficiently pound hangover, and if one of Liv's plans went haywire, they might all end up dead. Still, the thrill of creating a plan, the rush of executing it, and the not-too-shabby feeling of collecting the money afterwards was what she lived for. She waited for that crucial moment when everything fell into place, clicking one right after the other. That was a feeling she loved and savored, the feeling of a plan done right. She would have preferred to be back aboard a ship, doing almost the exact same thing except she would be in uniform and the money usually never arrived. But everyone knew Livvy didn't do it for the money, she did it for the thrill – just like a wealthy man who steals because he's good at it. It was something she did _right_.

When she came back into the warehouse, her hair still damp and her duffle bag slung carelessly over her shoulder, she heard the dull scrape of the doors being pulled back. Brose was standing in the doorway, her lethal black spikes gleaming wetly from the drizzling rain that pattered against the sidewalks. She had a Navy-issue travel pack strapped to her back, and she took one look at Livvy and whistled. "Shit, girl, you clean up nicely," Brose said, letting her bag fall to the floor. Olivia's keen ears detected the minute crinkle of paper-wrapped bottles rustling together. Brose never went anywhere without her drinks, and Liv could only hope that Natalie didn't find out. Brose sat at the table and arched an eyebrow, smiling as she watched her boss shrug on a scuffed and faded corduroy jacket, the faux sheepskin collar pushed upwards. Liv wasn't pretty – it wasn't her job to be pretty, that was Natalie's department. Natalie was the one who could dress up in a slinky black dress and walk in high heels without tripping. But there was one moment, just after her plans finished, when she had a defined, sharp elegance about her, a relaxed beauty which made her look more human and less like a killer. But now, she had a jittery, anxious aura which made her hooded eyes flinty and her fingers shake subtly. Brose lit a cigarette and blew a plume of blue smoke towards her boss.

"When's Natalie coming?" Liv asked, tucking her black tee shirt into her jeans. The jeans were suitably loose, but tight enough to hold the fabric of her shirt. Brose laughed a one-note laugh which was layered with smoke.

"That old tightwad? Dunno. She left to go pack," Brose said, and glanced around the warehouse. "I can't believe you still live here, Liv," Brose said, curling her lip and looking around at the drafty, frigid building. Liv dropped to one knee to finish lacing up her boots and gave a noncommittal jerk of her head, sending a wet lock of hair into her eyes.

"If this job goes well, I can actually afford to move into an apartment," Liv said, but Brose knew she wasn't serious. She said that after every gig – it was almost a joke now. Brose leaned against the card table, propping her elbows behind her and smirking around the cigarette.

"Yeah, right," Brose said idly, carefully twisting her spike of black hair around her finger to give it a more defined point. She checked her watch, and then tapped the digital face once, wondering why it was five minutes slow. Liv yanked off the dusty green tarp from one of the nearby stacks of crates and went around behind it. A long, rectangular Army-foot locker was padlocked shut, and she twisted it open with the key on her keychain. Beneath the thin metal lid, there was a plethora of weapons – ammo belts, stiletto knives, handguns, M-16's, semi-automatic weapons of all shapes and sizes. She selected her favorite, a Sig Sauer which was a dusty gray, and checked the ammo with practiced ease. Brose knew she was disassembling the weapon entirely by the rapid clicking and shifting she heard – it was a routine Liv went through before every mission. She thrived on routine. Brose smirked again and exhaled another lungful of smoke across the room.

The door shrieked crustily on its hinges as it was pulled back yet again, and a transformed Natalie entered. She wore skintight blue jeans and a loose denim jacket which dwarfed her extremely tiny frame. Her makeup had been applied again, this time thicker and smokier – her green eyes were painted heavily with lush grays and blacks. Designer sunglasses were perched on the top of her small head, and the little fissure in her sanity which had been visible a few minutes before had vanished. But Brose wasn't fooled – knowing Nat, she probably had three knives secreted around her, hidden in folds of her clothes which were almost nonexistent. She looked preppy and cute, and her white high heels clicked on the cement floors. "Are we ready to go?" She said chirpily, as if she hadn't been the one keeping them waiting.

Liv slid her handgun behind her, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans, and looked regretfully at the ammo locker. She would have liked to take the entire load, but the lighter they traveled, the better. She had no doubt that Natalie would carry her lock picking tools with her, and Brose would be armed to the teeth and ready to rip someone's head off, as usual. Liv didn't approve of the smoking and the drinking, but they charged Brose up and made her feel tough and invincible. That was her job – to be the muscle. Well, as muscular as Brose could get, considering she was only five-foot-six and about a hundred and twenty pounds. Livvy pulled her bag over her shoulder, and it clinked ominously, metal scraping against metal. "Yeah. C'mon, let's move out." She said, and Brose fell in step behind her. Their car was a nondescript white vehicle, specifically selected for it's anonymity and fuel economy. Brose, as usual, drove, and both Natalie and Livvy buckled up without a second thought.

Brose was a lot of things, but a good driver was not one of them.

* * *

><p>His job wasn't to stay alert and focused – that was Hannibal's job, and he was the best at it, too. But Face couldn't concentrate on his usual banter with BA and Murdock – something was nagging at him that he couldn't quite place. He looked over at BA and Murdock, both of which were unusually quiet and keeping to themselves. Hannibal was lounging in his seat with his usual kingly elegance, smoking a cigar and looking out at the expanse of wet, gleaming concrete where the planes were taxiing. Face cracked his knuckles and glanced back at the team, still on edge. He didn't like the smell of this mission – and Hannibal didn't either, he could tell. Those icy blue eyes hadn't sparked with enthusiasm when he mentioned it ; they had been wary and uncertain, two emotions very rarely seen on the boss's face. Going into a mission without knowing the mission entirely didn't sit well with Face, and he rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out some of the tension. The plane smelled fresh and clean, newly vacuumed, and spritzed with some sort of floral odor concealer. There had been a very cute little flight attendant which had smiled at him, and he wanted to sniff out that lead and see if it might lead anywhere, but he didn't feel like chasing anybody just yet. Actually, he felt sort of...bored. And when he was bored, he usually stirred up a fight between BA and Murdock, just to listen to them bicker, but he didn't feel like doing that, either. He rested his head against the comfortable airline chair.<p>

_What is wrong with me? _He thought to himself.

The curtain rustled, and the cute little flight attendant came up, smiling prettily. Behind her were three women, all of them varying radically in size and demeanor. "Uh, gentlemen, these are the passengers we were waiting for," The flight attendant said. "I hope you have a pleasant trip, please call me if you need anything. I'll be out with refreshments in about an hour or so." She said, and then scampered off. Evidently the other women frightened her.

And there was a good reason to be frightened, Hannibal thought, sizing them up while Face strode forward to make introductions. The tallest one there was easily five-nine, perhaps five-ten, with damp brunette hair pulled sharply back in a long ponytail. Her bangs fell shaggily to a pair of brows which were thick and arched over twin hooded, intense black eyes which scanned the entire cabin before resting on each of their faces as if committing them to memory. There was the subtle bulge of a gun behind her back, and Hannibal tensed in spite of himself. The second one, also of a decent height, had buzzed black hair with enough hair gel to starch a shirt, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. A sprawling, lazy smirk had curled the edge of her lips, and she had full cheeks which gave her a soft, sweet appearance despite the sneer in her brown eyes. The third was _tiny_, and there really wasn't another word for her. She was barely five feet tall, with long blonde hair and abnormally thin wrists. Her cleavage was more than ample, put gently on display by a tight orange tank top which showed beneath her baggy denim jacket. There was a crack in those green eyes – something not quite right, a shading which unsettled him. The trio was unsettling – from the leader's proud, haughty gaze, the other women's sardonic, drawling smirk, and the uneasiness in the blonde woman's eyes. All of these details he gleaned in an instant, and he folded his arms, raising one hand slowly to remove the cigar from his mouth and exhale a cloud of silver smoke.

"Hey, I'm Face, nice to meet you," Face said, smiling, extending a hand. For a split second, Livvy almost rejected it, but shook it to seem polite. He was boyishly cute, with brown-blonde hair curling around his pretty blue eyes and a cheerful smile accenting his handsome features. He wore a white dress shirt, open at the collar and exposing a hint of rippling tanned muscles, with slick shoes and an even slipperier smile, which seemed very charming and very fake. Despite this, Natalie blushed to the roots of her hair and beamed at him. Behind him, there was a broad-shouldered, slope-backed giant of a man with deep black skin and ruthless eyes, his head shaved into a mohawk. Gold chains hung around his neck and several earrings studded his dark lobes, with bracelets adorning his exposed wrists and arms. His bicep was easily the size of Olivia's leg, but he seemed gentle, a fact which Liv didn't quite know for certain. To the immediate left of the black man was a thin man with ash-brown hair and jumpy eyes, a crooked smile which was very and completely offsetting, as if a few wires had been reconnected wrong in his mind. He had on the weirdest looking brown hat she had ever seen, with something like koala ears on the top, with an odd gleam in his eyes that Natalie sometimes got. But there was a man in the back, his arms folded, just looking at her as if evaluating an escape route, and she felt a shudder of nerves flicker down her spine. She knew who he was; he was Colonel Hannibal Smith, and he looked ever more calculating and cool than in his 'Wanted' photos. He was a giant of a man, tall and rugged and lean, with silvering hair and broad shoulders. He looked weather-beaten and muscular, and she tried to dispel the feeling of being judged. Livvy swallowed and shook hands with Face.

"I'm Liv Marks, and this is my team. This is Ambrosia Jackson, whom we call Brose, and this is Natalie English, who we call Natalie or just Nats." She said, introducing them. Her eye flickered to the silent, rugged man in the corner, and extended a hand. "You must be Colonel Smith. I've heard a lot about you, sir."

"And you must be Olivia Marks," He said, his large, calloused palm roughing against her own smaller, finer one. He had a deep, rumbling voice with a hint of an Irish growl along the words. "You headed the Hong Kong operation in '06, am I correct?" He asked. She nodded once, her gaze dropping to the floor, and then conjured a mask as easily as one might reach for a glass of water.

"Yes, I did," She said. Those silent, silver-gray eyes noted her drop in tone and filed it away for later. The huge black man shook her hand as well, and she felt the raw power hemmed in by the muscles he had draping his frame.

"BA," He said simply, and she nodded tersely at him. Natalie hesitantly shook hands with Murdock, who saluted with his left hand and said "Ello, guvnah," In a very fake British accent.

They stood there awkwardly, the two teams comparing and contrasting. Hannibal looked to Liv, and shrugged slightly. "We're the A-Team," He said quietly. "And I don't suppose you know what our mission is, do you?" He asked.

"No, I don't," Liv said. Then a smile – nothing more than a spasmodic flicker, a slanted grin tugging up the left side of her mouth – lighted her features. Hannibal blinked and it was gone. "I suppose that makes us the B-Team, doesn't it?" She said with a smirk.

* * *

><p><em> AN: All characters do not belong to me, but my obsession with Liam Neeson is certainly my own, unfortunately. Man, I have to stop freaking out over him. It's starting to make other people think I'm crazy. Please review! Cookies to Syrtis who reviewed last time! (And when are you going to draw more of your beautiful pictures, Syrtis?)_


	3. Chapter 3: No Choice At All

Natalie was uneasy.

This was a normal situation for her to be in, considering she heard _things_. Not anything normal, like whistles or bells – she just heard machine gun fire. The rapid, jutting, staccato noise of bullets cracking through the air, the cries of her injured troops dying, their moist shrieks tearing through the air. And it was worse at night – because at night, she could _see_ them as well as hear them. Whenever she closed her lids, she saw her injured SEALS, all clinging to wreckage, blood seeping into the waters and attracting black triangles of death which sliced through the foamy waves. She relived, over and over again, the feeling of grasping helplessly to a broken barrel as she watched her beautiful ship smolder and burn into a singed black spot against the majestic crimson sunset. And she could smell it too; the tang of salt against the roof of her mouth, the coppery smell of blood clouding her mind, her leg throbbing dully as the shattered bone burned her skin, a simmering pain which knifed through her and forcibly tethered her to reality, not allowing her to slip under the waves and die along with the rest of her crew. Had Brose or Livvy seen Natalie at that moment, pressing herself against the seat, they would have seen that the crack in her sanity had widened to a chasm, that her emerald green eyes were wide and perfectly still, a deer in the headlights.

But it wasn't the screams of her dying crewmates which made her uneasy today – it was this whole mission. The A-Team was rogue, and they had escaped from maximum security prison twice, it was told. And nobody could trust them. There were countless legends about them, and they were so swathed in myths that tales and realism began to blur, and stories melted against one another like waves on a beach. She could see that Livvy was tense too, but Livvy was always tense. Ever since she got back from Iran. Then again, every person she knew who came back from Iran came back tense. Brose was the only one who seemed perfectly at ease, but that was because she was in the very back corner, swigging down the free gin-and-waters as though they had left out the gin. Brose was happiest when she was alone with a drink in her hand and a cigarette in her fingers, everybody knew that. Natalie drew her knees to her chest and hugged herself tightly, pressing her chin down on top of her legs as she tried to crush herself against the corner of the seat. She didn't like this, the whole idea of _not knowing_. The uncertainty of the mission was wearing at her, and her chin dug deeper into her kneecaps as she gritted her teeth.

Livvy wanted to pace. She liked pacing – the movement kept her mind going and stopped it from running in fruitless circles. But she couldn't pace – she didn't want to attract any attention from the A-Team; they had a reputation, and she wanted to find out if they were the real deal. At any rate, she settled for jiggling her leg impatiently, and almost automatically she withdrew her favorite thinking toy from her pocket: her yoyo. It was an old wooden thing with a yellowed string and badly painted sides, but she had played with it for years and the toy – dubbed with the moniker "Old Faithful" – always climbed back up the string to greet her palm. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it spinning downwards, and then the tired old yoyo shot back into her hand. It calmed her, to some effect, and she started to think rationally.

The voice on the phone had been maddeningly familiar, she just couldn't place it. He had sounded rich; over the years, she could tell when the wealth seeped into their tones and created an almost indefinable tilt to their chin as they looked down their noses at you, no matter how kind they were. He had also sounded smug, and that was what chafed her. She was known for being impossible to one-up, and the idea that someone was smug about something she was doing was annoying. Actually, it was making her increasingly frustrated as the minutes ticked by, and she sent Old Faithful down the string again with a fast, hard jerk. If he was wealthy and smug, he was probably powerful – but powerful enough to get her reinstated, that was the question. Not many military men sounded the way he had, so she doubted he was involved in actual combat. It was too good to hope for a CIA person, one of those secret agents who didn't exist. Those were rare as hen's teeth and more valuable than a genie when you had them trapped between a rock and a hard place. As long as you knew how to play the game, they could get you virtually anything.

She was busily flicking Old Faithful and continuing down this vein of thought when she heard footsteps coming up the aisle. Turning to her left with a startled jump, she saw an impassive Hannibal lounging in the chair across the aisle. From this close up, she could catch a whiff of his scent – a spicy musk which was a combination of gunpowder, gasoline, and, of course, cigar smoke. He wasn't bad to look at, from her point of view, but it was those eyes which unsettled her. They were so calmly evaluating her, openly stripping off the masks she had built up so carefully to conceal her hurts and scars, and she hated people who had this uncanny ability. She was beginning to seriously dislike him, come to think of it – and now those stormy blue eyes were actually glaring at her, something akin to severe displeasure and annoyance flickering in the usually impassive blue orbs.

"Do you often let your team members drink seven ways to Sunday, Miss Marks?" He said, that deep Irish growl hemming his baritone voice. Instantly, her dislike turned to hate in a split second, and those charcoal eyes went dark with anger as she met his gaze. Nobody insulted her crew or questioned her orders – and those that did usually ended up in a hospital with a broken nose and bodily injuries.

Her demeanor change was instantaneous and alarming – she turned from a wary fox to a savage wolf all in a moment. Her hooded eyes flared and her left hand disappeared behind her back as she gripped the handle of her gun. Mentally, he rolled his eyes. She was as trigger-happy as ninety percent of most Army Rangers, and that was the absolute _last_ thing he needed on this mission. On any mission, really. People whose fingers snapped on the trigger first and asked questions never deserved to eat one of their own bullets, without salt. "Brose can do as she likes," She said, her voice acquiring a subtle rasp. He would later learned this only happened when she was seriously, majorly _pissed off_. "And she's been through a lot of shit, okay? If she wants to have a drink to settle her nerves, she has my go ahead."

"Miss Marks, I don't know what kind of team you run," Hannibal said lowly, "But I normally don't allow my boys to drink before a mission, especially not six gin-and-waters topped off with half a bottle of Jack Daniels."

She leaned forward then, bridging the gap between them, and he saw that her eyes were a rich and smoky shade of gray, and positively savage with intense dislike. Her high cheekbones and slightly hollowed cheeks seemed to jump from her face, and he wouldn't have been surprised if she had swiped at him like a cat. "You're a fine one to talk," She snarled, "telling me how to run my crew. I know how my girls operate, and I know that if I take away Brose's cigs and her booze, she'll be useless, at least mission-wise. All three of us have things we'd like to forget, okay? And if she needs drinks to erase what she's gone through, then I'm not going to let her live in her nightmares."

He leaned forward as well, his cigar held loosely between his fingers, his spicy breath skimming her face, those blue eyes vibrantly passionate. "Don't flatter yourself, Miss Marks. We all have things we'd like to forget. And if we're going to be working on this mission together, then we'll be operating by my standards. I'm not going to let a slipup on your end cost the lives of one of my boys, is that clear?" He said.

She wanted to strike him, slap him clean across the face, but she didn't dare. Some sane part of her knew that he would probably hit her right back, and seeing as he towered a good half-foot over her head and was lean with ridged muscles, he probably would knock her cold. So, instead of dropping her hand to her boot and taking out her hunting knife, she took a shallow breath, and said, "You act like you're in control of my team, Hannibal Smith, and I've got news for you. They're _my fuckin' team_, and you aren't king of the world. You don't own me, and you don't own my girls. You aren't a Colonel anymore, and we're not your troops, so leave me and my girls the hell alone."

She got up, long legs taking her down the aisle in seconds, and she sat down hard next to Brose. Hannibal took a long drag from his cigar, and let the smoke spill out of his mouth slowly, trying to hem in his anger. He didn't know what their employer was playing at, but he couldn't have chosen two worse teams for each other. This was going to be a miserably long mission, and he would have to be constantly on edge to make sure his boys were all right. He wouldn't get to feel that oh-so-sweet feeling of his puzzle pieces falling into place, the cogs meshing together as his plan sewed a net around his aggressors. He wouldn't be able to take any pleasure in this mission at all, and it was annoying the hell out of him. Everything was annoying the hell out of him, especially that wolfish woman who thought everything was answered with a shot to the nape of the neck. His gaze went back to the rear of the cabin just in time, because he managed to see Livvy pluck the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from Brose's astonished hands. The shorter woman made a little noise of anger in the back of her throat, and Livvy dipped her head to mumble something almost inaudible. Decisively, Liv tucked the bottle of alcohol into her pocket, and Brose locked her jaw, spitting something in a low, harsh tone at her boss. He felt a smirk slide over his weatherbeaten features, and he took a draw on his cigar.

Prideful woman.

* * *

><p>Not fifteen minutes later, a sated Face and a blushing flight attendant came giggling back into the cabin, and the woman made a vain attempt to smooth her crinkled uniform and mussed hair. When she realized this was useless – mostly because Face had suggested in a low voice that he might just mess up her neat little uniform again in five minutes – she cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but the captain would like to speak with you," She said, trying to sound as professional as possible. A grinning Face stole a searing kiss from the now-crimson flight attendant, and the two teams grudgingly made their way farther up the plane, pushing back a rough navy curtain to reveal a large, open area. Several glasses of champagne had been poured, and there was a small, square television screen mounted on the wall. Seven seats had been arranged in a semi-circle around the screen, and the A-Team took their seats almost at once. Brose, however, did an odd pat-down of her seat cushion before sitting on it, and Natalie studied her chair carefully before sitting cross-legged. Livvy crossed her legs and crossed her left hand behind her back so it could rest against the butt of her gun. It was a comfort thing.<p>

Brose was eyeing the champagne greedily, but Natalie made a noise like an angry cat in the back of her throat when she reached for one. Sulking, the spiky-haired woman withdrew and folded her arms tightly across her chest. Before Brose could verbalize her unhappiness, however, the screen flashed to life, and they were all looking at a very familiar face. At least, it was extremely familiar to anyone who had been watching television, because sitting before them was a brown-haired, brown-eyed man who was currently surging ahead in the polls. His name was Jack Kinnons, and he ran his ads on almost every channel practically every minute, and he had seemingly infinite wealth raining down on him. He had several things going for him, and it didn't hurt that he was extremely good looking. But mostly, he had been head of the CIA several years ago, despite his youth, and he had been hailed as a prodigy. Livvy felt a single hot sheet of hope flash through her, igniting every nerve ending, as she realized she was about to do a mission for a man who could not only get her reinstated, but could probably get her the moon, if she wanted it.

"Well, well, well, it looks like we're all here," He said, leaning back in his chair. His frameless glasses were seated higher on the bridge of his nose, making his big, soft, puppy-brown eyes seem even larger. "The A-Team and three of the best Navy SEALS ever to hit the water. How are your teams getting along?" He inquired.

Liv and Hannibal exchanged a glance.

"Perfectly well, sir," Liv answered sourly. "Couldn't be a better match."

He smiled. "Good. Now, I'm assuming you want to know why you're all here."

"Hell yeah," BA grunted, scowling at the screen. Kinnons smiled again, exposing perfectly straight white teeth.

"All right, it's fairly simple, actually. In Murmansk, Russia, there's a compound. A pretty well fortified compound, I'll give it that, but it's the Russians after all." He allowed himself a titter, and Brose cracked her knuckles. He continued hastily. "Recently, a woman named Zhenya Ruddisk has married the current dictator there, Malkovisz. He's threatening to launch WMD's against the United States, and to protect himself and his blushing bride, he locked himself in this compound." He smiled widely again, more of a slightly off-putting sneer now. "It shouldn't be any problem for two teams like yourselves to get into the compound, and then you can dispose of our lovely Zhenya Ruddisk."

"Wait, you want us to _kill_ her?" Face asked, his brow furrowing. "Isn't this more of an operation for your flunkies, Kinnons?"

"Might want to watch it, Peck," Kinnons said, his plastic smile cracking slightly. "All I have to do it snap my fingers and the pilot of that plane rams that craft into the ground. None of us want that, do we?" He checked his polished nails, and then steepeled his fingers. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes, obviously you can see this is an issue of national security, and I would consider it my highest honor to reinstate national heroes myself."

"You just want us for the press," Natalie said, her high-pitched voice shaking a little. "You want the publicity for putting the wrongdoings of the system to light and for preventing an attack against Russia. That's all you want."

Was it possible that he almost seemed relieved? Liv thought to herself. No, she decided, it wasn't possible. "Well, it would have its perks," He said with another bright smile. "But what choice do you have?"

It was a weighted question, and as Liv bit into her knuckles, she realized there was only one answer.

_No choice at all._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Please review! I'd love to hear what you think! And yes, Liv and Hannibal might be paired, although I'm not sure who Natalie and Brose are going with. Any suggestions? Considering the story is so young, I have a lot of wiggle room here. xD Oh, and I almost forgot – check out the Character Pictures on my profile! I scoured the internet to find three pictures that look moderately like my characters. They're not _exactly_ what I imagined, but they're close. xD _


	4. Chapter 4: Disobeying Orders

She was a cute little thing, Face thought to himself as he watched Natalie follow Olivia sheepishly. They were all pretty sweet – except the tall one, what's-her-face, Liv. There was something feral and hawkish about her that made him think of snipers and assassins. But the one who really caught his eye was the middle one, Brose – she had some nice curves to her, with a positively adorable mouth which looked utterly kissable. And, of course, that I'll-kick-your-ass-if-you-mess-with-me look, which always interested him. She had a serious chip on her shoulder, that was certain, and she pouted like a five year old when Liv took away her booze. Brose was lighting up another cigarette and letting the smoke curl seductively between her fingers, and when she caught his eye, she grinned at him. It wasn't a playful, cheerful grin of friendship and camaraderie. It was a grin of sarcastic foreboding, a promise of a wrestling match and perhaps broken bones then next time he looked at her like that. He felt himself perk up a little. Maybe all he needed was a challenge – it had been too easy to get women lately. The girl with the black spiky hair might just be the emotional perk he needed to get his head in gear for this mission. Besides, romance was very inspiring, and he needed to be inspired right now. He followed Hannibal and the rest off the plane and stretched his legs as he hit the concrete. The flight had been long and tense, with the two teams retreating to opposite ends of the plane and shooting each other suspicious glances. Cracking his knuckles and then twisting his neck, Face strolled casually alongside Brose, who was smoking her cigarette as though they would be outlawed the next day.

"Hey," He said, in an offhand way. Instead of even bothering to respond, she flicked him a glance and tapped the ashes from her cigarette. He licked his lips and tried again. "We're getting hired by a presidential candidate. Pretty wild, huh?"

"You know what would be awesome?" Brose said suddenly, turning to him. He saw with growing appreciation that her eyes were a complex and multi-faceted shade of hazel and tawny gold. He gave her his lady-killer smile, that devilish grin which quirked the side of his mouth and showed off his even, white teeth.

"What?" He responded. She leaned in close and he got a whiff of her gin-laced breath and got smoke in his hair.

"If you shut the hell up and quit checking me out." She smirked right back at him, her hazel eyes narrowing in satisfaction. "That would be awesome. And you know what else, Pretty Boy? If you cut out the strutting around like you're God's gift to women everywhere. That's seriously pissing me off, and when I get pissed off, people start getting hurt." She dropped her cigarette at his feet and swaggered off, her hips rolling from side to side as she followed her team leader towards the large gray building before them. He couldn't stop the genuinely cheerful smile from spreading across his face.

_Ooh-la-la._

Liv turned up the collar of her denim jacket and followed the pilot, who seemed as though he knew exactly where he was going. To her left was the skinny man with the shifty grin and the funny-koala hat, who seemed to be humming opera to himself and doing a little step-step-skip which was bugging her. Everyone was uncommonly quiet, even BA, and the dull roar of planes taking off swarmed inside her ears. Natalie was running her thumb across the ridged edge of her throwing knife, the one she always kept in her hip pocket, and Liv noticed the movement. Natalie had been nervous and worried about the upcoming mission; despite her occasional lapses in sanity and her abhorrence towards partying, alcohol, and cigarettes of any kind, she was the mothering one of the group. Brose and Liv would both die for the team, but Natalie was the one who cooked and tried to keep them in clean clothes, keep them in legal jobs in between missions. Liv, the girls knew, would just as soon ditch civilian life and head for a life of crime if it meant getting reinstated, and Brose was happy wherever there were drinks. Liv nudged the petite blonde, and Natalie looked up, her scared eyes catching Liv's dark black ones. Somehow, that always comforted her, and Natalie expelled a deep breath between her teeth and stopped caressing her knife. Things would be okay. She didn't know about this mission – she hated killing – but she trusted Liv implicitly. Liv would have a plan. She always did, and it was always a plan which they could count on.

The doors hissed open, and the biting winds which had been slowly peeling the skin from their cheeks melted inside the lush, warm interior, and they all unconsciously sighed in appreciation. BA rolled his shoulders and dragged his hands across his arms, dispelling the goose bumps and shrugging off his nerves. The pilot had hardly waited until the door closed and the frosty air disappeared before punching the elevator button and waiting silently. There was a long, awkward silence while the two teams tried not to have any physical contact of any kind, which was difficult, considering the room was rather cozy and the ceiling was low. After a moment, the elevator dinged once, and the dented doors slid open, revealing an even tighter space in which to cram inside. Silently, the pilot gestured for them to go inside, and reluctantly the seven of them stuffed themselves inside the elevator. With a nod, the pilot pressed the button again and the doors closed, separating him from the teams, and they were left with just themselves. Brose fidgeted uncomfortably, aware that she was in very close proximity to a coldly silent Hannibal, who was glancing derisively at Liv. Something had happened between the two of them, and Brose was determined to find out whose nose to break.

It seemed like forever, but in reality the elevator ride only lasted a few seconds before the doors opened and they spilled, relieved, out into a long, carpeted hallway. At the end was a door, and also a man of medium height and build, his brown hair slicked back and his frameless glasses settled on the edge of his nose. He had an easy, casual smile which appeared often and seemed to linger in his eyes, and he extended his hand for Hannibal to shake. "Jack Kinnons," He said smilingly. "Good to meet you in person, Colonel. And you, Miss Marks." He flashed her his grin, which seemed a little more off kilter to her up close than it had on the television screen. "I'm assuming you want to check out some hardware from out expansive collection of weaponry, and I also have blueprints of the compound, if you're interested."

Something about this didn't quite ring true to Hannibal, but he kept his mouth shut. Half of all battles could be avoided by paying attention to details, and he stuck to that religiously. He noticed that Liv was mentally studying Kinnons for weapons, observed that Murdock was checking out Natalie from behind, and also that BA was distinctly uneasy. Kinnons punched in a key code into a small number pad near the door, and there was a brief, sharp, klaxon buzz as the door popped open. Kinnons pushed the door open further and gestured inside. "And this – is where the magic happens," He said, following the two groups inside. There was a muttered curse by Brose and BA and seven identical faces of awe as they looked at the warehouse of weapons in front of them.

Crates of explosives were lined in neat piles, opened boxes of guns gleamed wetly in the industrial overhead lights. Tarps covered some rows entirely, but the machinery that was visible looked invitingly menacing and suitably dangerous. There was a suped-up trike with fat tires and a shimmering black finish, complete with speed stripes on the side, and there was a whole carton of knives right next to it. Sniper rifles, complete with cases, were stacked waist high, and Liv's eyes were drawn magnetically towards a harness with small black containers along the side. There were grenades and ammo belts, blocks of C-4 and sticks of dynamite, armored trucks and samurai swords. Brose looked like a kid in a candy shop as she hefted an AK-47 and sighted along the barrel, smiling around her cigarette. BA slapped his hands together with an "Aw, yeah, baby!" and mounted the suped-up trike. Even Hannibal seemed impressed, and was closely examining a wide ammo belt which could be secreted beneath an actual belt. Liv, to Hannibal's surprise, wasn't drawn to the weapons as he had originally thought, but instead slid inside an armored truck, slamming the door behind her.

"As you can see, we have quite a selection," Kinnons said smilingly. "And anything you need is yours, of course. We have a plane for you to take to Russia – unfortunately, I can't give you a pilot, otherwise my situation would be compromised, but I hear you have a suitable, ah, pilot of your own." He said, glancing uncertainly at Murdock. Admittedly, Murdock _was_ running his hands along a chopper which was taking up the majority of the left hand side of the room, murmuring endearments in Chinese, which he seemed to speak fluently.

"Murdock will be fine," Hannibal said gruffly, taking his cigar from his mouth and piercing Kinnons with his calm blue eyes. "You said you had blueprints?"

"Yes," Kinnons said, and took out a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket. "Now, normally I would ask you how you're going to get in there," He said, "But today I just want you to come back in one piece. Okay? So don't tell me how, and don't tell me when, but it would be great if I can get a nice little surge by mid-February."

"You're expecting this to take a month?" Natalie said, looking up with her brows furrowed. Kinnons smiled at her – he smiled at everyone, but this one seemed more like a creepy leer than a grin. Natalie, however, was completely unfazed by the fact that Kinnons answered her with his eyes fastened on her chest. She had, after all, grown up with it.

"Russia is a long ways off," He said. "And I want to give you guys a little wiggle room. Okay? Okay. I'll have someone see you to the flight deck when you're ready to fly."

"We'll need rations," Liv said, poking her head from the armored truck and resting her elbow on the roof of it. "Lots of them, if you expect this to take a month."

Kinnons waved his hand dismissively. "I have a contact in Russia who will give you everything you need by ways of food and survival packs," He said. "Now, is there anything else you need? Because I have a press conference at two, and I would really hate to be late for my own party."

"One question, Mr. Kinnons," Hannibal said quietly, "How do I know we'll get paid?"

"C'mon, Colonel," Kinnons said laughingly. "Don't you trust me?"

Hannibal's voice was low and certain. "No, as a matter of fact, I don't." Kinnons waved a hand dismissively.

"Believe me, you'll get your money," He said. "It's a drop in the bucket. Now, have fun, I gotta run." He winked at Natalie, and stepped out through the doors.

There was a beat of silence, and then BA looked up from the trike. "Hey, bossman, do we hafta fly to Russia?" He asked. Hannibal didn't even bother answering, but Brose picked up on the plea in his voice.

"Thought you guys were Rangers," She said, lying flat on her belly and peering through a scope to examine the far wall with pinpoint accuracy. Face laughed, and she looked up. He had a nice laugh, but a far too confident one. It was time to take him down a notch, she decided. "Or are all Rangers just scared shitless at the thought of flying?" She said sarcastically. Liv noticed Hannibal's tensing, and BA's gaze grew distinctly colder.

"Brose," Liv said warningly. Brose, whose gin-and-waters were finally going from her brain to her tongue, shrugged.

"What?" She asked. Liv rolled her eyes and stepped out of the truck, slamming the door behind her. The sound was warningly loud in the large, echoic room, and Brose picked up on the hint. "Sorry," She grumbled. "Not often that you see Rangers with a fear of flying, though," She added. Liv marched over and pulled her up, taking the sniper's gun from her hands.

"C'mon, Brose," She said, tugging her off to one side and into another aisle. When they were safely out of earshot, Liv got right up in her face, and Brose saw how serious she was. "Hand it over," Liv demanded in a whisper. At Brose's feigned look of innocence, Liv elaborated. "Every drop of alcohol you have on your person or in your bag, Brose. Don't make me frisk you. You know I will."

"You can't be serious," Brose said, trying to laugh. She faltered when she saw Liv's hooded eyes flare. "Come off it, Liv, you always let me have a little fun before missions. There's no harm in it. I know when to stop, Liv, you have to trust me." She said, and noticed Liv's eyes hardening further still. Now they resembled marble-flecked orbs of dusty black, and Brose knew she was about to either jab her fingers into someone's solar plexus or chew someone a new asshole. Or both. "Liv, if this is about the other team, take it easy. They don't mind, I know they don't." She began, but Liv cut her off.

"No, they do mind, Brose!" Liv snapped. "You're right, I don't usually mind, but we're working with other team members, and I'm having to work with another team leader. You think this is easy, Brose? Huh? 'Cause it's not. I know what you've been through, I know what we've all been through, but I need you sober. I can't have you pissing everyone off when you run your mouth, okay? So either hand over the booze, or keep your lip buttoned. Because I swear to God, if you make one mistake, I'll break every single bottle over your head."

"What is wrong with you?" Brose hissed. "You're _never_ this uptight before missions! What did that asshole say? Because whatever he said, it's making you into a bitch."

Liv seized two fistfuls of Brose's jacket, dragging her face close to hers. "I – will – do – _anything_ – to get reinstated! If I have to go to Russia and scalp penguins in my underwear, I'll do it! It may be a picnic for the rest of you, but being a SEAL is what I am. It's what I do. And I'm not going to let a bottle of booze stand between me and my reinstatement, Brose!" She snarled.

"This is all about you, isn't it?" Brose growled. "It's always you, you, _you_! I thought team leaders were supposed to be that – _team_ leaders!"

Wordlessly, Liv dropped Brose and snatched the cigarette from her hand. With a brisk stamp, she squashed it underfoot and looked at Brose evenly. "One whiff of alcohol on you, Brose, and I'm sending you home." She said quietly, and then left, shrugging her jacket over her shoulders and cracking her knuckles. Brose angrily lit another cigarette and tried to calm her raging temper. Hannibal had said _something_ to her, that much was certain, and Brose was going to raise hell until she found out what. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and her nails clinked against the nip bottle of vodka in them, and she froze. She pulled it out, looking at the wax seal still surrounding the cap, and thought about what Liv had just said. She twisted the cap off, downed the contents, and then dropped it on the floor. Russia or not, she wouldn't stay awake shivering and shuddering the entire night while she wrestled with her fears of battle. Because whatever Liv wanted, Brose didn't want to be in active duty again. She had seen enough. She wanted out. And if that meant sinking deeper into the bottle, then she was fully prepared to do that.

Hannibal watched Liv come over to him, her narrow cheeks flushed, her brows higher and thicker than ever. She glared at him, and stuck her hand out, palm up. "Hand over those blueprints, Pops," She said. "You're not the only one whose good at making plans."

He took a drag on his cigar and allowed a smile to steal over his face. This might work out after all.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Not sure how this chapter came out. I'm currently a little under the weather, just sniffles and suchlike, but I watched _The A-Team _for the sixth time and I couldn't let this chapter just lie dormant in my mind. I was planning to have the Brose/Liv faceoff a little later, but I decided this was as good a time as any. Please tell me what you think!_


	5. Chapter 5: Everybody Wins

Poker was never something Brose was very good at. Mostly because she had a terrible poker face – she always growled and swore when she got dealt a bad hand, smirked when she had a good one, and threw the cards everywhere when she lost. Natalie, on the other hand, was exceptional; her pretty face, framed with long blonde hair, always seemed neutral and perky whenever she played cards. Also, she was a flirt – she had this card trick where she made the queen of hearts come out of her cleavage. After working with her for almost six years, Brose had never figured out how she did that. But today, Natalie seemed distant, and even thought she had a handful of winning cards, she seemed reluctant to play them. They were sitting around with a few beers – Natalie had threatened Brose with makeup if she touched the alcohol – and the large warehouse had one small, sturdy table perfect for playing cards. Natalie toyed with the corner of her cards, staring at the table silently and drifting a little. Hannibal and Liv had been in the other room for almost two hours – Natalie knew that Liv made up complicated, thorough plans, and from Hannibal's reputation, he was the same way. So, either the compound was ridiculously hard to get into, or they were fighting about something. Or maybe both. Come to think of it, judging by the way they were glaring at each other earlier, it was probably the latter.

"You know what would make this game interesting?" Face said, lounging in his rickety chair and tipping it backwards slightly as he examined his cards. He looked up and met Brose's eyes, smiling at her. "If we played _strip_ poker."

"Oh, please," Murdock sniffed, his light Midwestern drawl scraping along his words, "Nobody wants to see you in your jammies, Face." He contemplated his hand, and then scratched his scalp. "Anybody got any kings?"

"We're playin' poker, fool," BA grunted, glowering at his handful of cards. "Not Go-Fish."

"You have a king?" Brose said, and then threw her cards disgustedly on the table. "Forget it. I'm out." She looked at Natalie, whose cards were held loosely in her hands and was looking across the room at the door where Hannibal and Liv had disappeared through. "Yo, Nats, its your play," Brose said. "Earth to Nats?"

"Sorry," Natalie said, and put down her cards. "I'm out too."

Murdock had been looking at her oddly, and then he smiled – it was still slightly off kilter, like a ship in rough waters, but it was warm and fun despite its crookedness. "Like my hat?" He asked Natalie, and she looked at his silly looking brown hat, complete with koala-ears. Ba began shuffling the cards, shaking his head.

"Fool," He commented. "I tol' you t' dump that off when we got on the plane."

Natalie smiled – for the first time in hours – and Brose appreciated what a lovely, warm smile it was. Of the three women, Natalie was the only one with a genuine smile. "Yeah," Natalie said. "Where'd you get it?"

BA slapped his face, then rubbed his eyes. "Aw, hell no," He muttered. "Damn story changes ever' time. What's it gonna be now, you crazy-ass fool? You swim through the ocean t' get it?"

Murdock shot him an affronted look. "No," He said. "Whatever gave you that idea? Don't listen to him, he's crazy," He told Natalie, nodding confidentially. Natalie giggled a little, in spite of herself. "Now, I almost sacrificed my life for this hat, y'know," He continued. "See, Face over there was tied to a chair in this burning building –"

"Wait, what?" Face started. "I was never stuck in a burning building, except this _one time_ when Hannibal's plan didn't go right –"

Brose wasn't sure which one was more unbelievable – the famous Hannibal Smith having a plan which didn't go as planned, or Face tied to a chair in a burning building. Then again, it could have been a lover's spat. In that light, it was perfectly reasonable to see Face tied to a chair in a burning building with an ex-girlfriend tossing away a match with a maniacal laugh.

" – and I had to go get him out," Murdock said, as if no interruptions had been made, "but he had this hat on his head –"

"Me, let that moth-eaten bag on my head?" Face snorted. "Not likely."

" – which was doused with gasoline," Murdock continued, "and it was on fire. So I picked up Face –"

"You pick _Face _up?" BA laughed. "Wit' your scrawny arms?"

" – and we crashed through the window and into the street below. Of course, we were five stories up, so I had to use Face as a cushion. Nearly broke every one of his ribs. That's why he walks with a limp." Murdock finished at a gallop. Face sputtered, spreading his hands.

"Wait, what the hell? I don't walk with a limp!" Face protested. Murdock made a face.

"You walk like Frankenstein, chap," Murdock informed him politely. Face shook his head and rolled his eyes; by now, even Brose was giggling, but Natalie was laughing her butt off. It felt so good to laugh that she feared she might burst into tears next, so she kept laughing with all her might. Murdock looked at her, jerked a thumb at the laughing blonde, and shrugged. "Crazy lady," He said, to no one in particular."

Laughter was cut short when the door flew open and Liv came storming out. Her hooded eyes were large and she was snarling to herself, the icy mask which was usually so carefully applied was shattered and everyone saw how furious she was. Hannibal was smoking his cigar, leaning against the doorframe and smirking at her, his calloused fingers toying with his cigar. Natalie stood instantly, knocking over her chair, and looked from Liv to Hannibal. Liv's chestnut hair was out of her ponytail, and she had the elastic around her wrist, which she seemed to be twisting around her finger ferociously. With her hair down, she had an unruly, wild look to her, as though she had just gone hunting for her own food. "Olivia?" Natalie asked hesitantly. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, just fine," Liv snapped, grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair and pulling it on. "Just peachy. As a matter of fact, why don't you ask our dear friend Colonel Smith how our plan went? It seems _he _has all the ideas, after all." Liv snarled, and then turned to Brose. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"Yeah, but you don't smoke," Brose reminded her. Liv locked her jaw.

"Thought I might start," She growled, and then slammed the door behind her as she left to get a breath of fresh air. The two teams looked at each other silently, and then Natalie sputtered.

"What did you _do_?" Brose and Natalie demanded in unison, turning to Hannibal. He was still lounging near the doorway, his cool blue-gray eyes lingering on the door where Liv had just departed through. He didn't say anything – _couldn't_ say anything. Liv was an excellent planner; too good, as a matter of fact. She was a regular Wile E. Coyote when it came to ideas, careful when it came to strategies. But she was _young_, damn it, too young and impatient. And selfish. And she couldn't work with other teams, for God's sake. She didn't want to listen to other ideas, arched an eyebrow disdainfully when he sketched out suggestions, unwilling to understand his point of view. They had begun arguing within five seconds of opening the blueprint, and now Hannibal was of the idea that Kinnons wanted to get them all killed. The building was built on a natural shelf of bedrock, razor wire around the perimeter, and no less than ten guards on duty at all time. Whatever this dictator was doing, he had tremendous manpower and was willing to burrow himself deep to keep himself safe. Not to mention the entire compound was a hundred miles away from any civilization at all, deep in the icy, snowy regions of Russia, and this time of year, it would be colder than his ex-wife on Christmas in the North Pole.

"We need more intel," Hannibal answered, breathing a curl of blue smoke between his teeth. The spicy taste of his cigar soothed him, and he flicked his silver-blue eyes over to Face. "She's trying to make a plan without knowing all the facts."

"She always does that," Natalie piped up defensively, her tiny hands closing into fists. "She makes a beginning plan, and then embellishes it as new factors come in."

"Damn backwards way to make a plan," Hannibal said, his deep Irish growl rumbling along his words. "She's too young for this operation, Face. I need to talk to Kinnons."

"We can work it out," Murdock said, looking up hopefully. "We're gonna do fine."

"Not if he keeps badgering Liv," Brose said icily.

"I'm not badgering!" Hannibal protested angrily. "Me and my boys can't do this alone, but we can't do it with you three. You're too inexperienced."

"_Inexperienced_?" Brose spat, on her feet in an instant. "You think we're _inexperienced_? Look, old man, we might not have been doing this for a thousand years like you have, but we _damn_ well have experience! We've done over sixty missions in seven years, and there used to be _five of us_. Five. Not three. Maybe you've seen people die, Colonel Smith, but have you _let_ them die? Huh? We've been through hell and come out burned, but we're still on our feet. You're the Alpha Team, but us? We've been everywhere, done everything."

"Oh, really?" Hannibal said, his artic blue eyes going flinty. "You may talk big, Petty Officer, but you forget your place! You're uncooperative, and I'm not going to sacrifice my boys for a mistake on your part. Kinnons can get us another team, a _real_ team, not some SEALS who think they're on top of the world."

Natalie pressed a fist to her mouth and backed up. "Both of you! Stop it!" She said, her voice shrill and tight. All eyes swung to her, and her green eyes were frantic and panicked, her hands shaking. "We can do this, okay?" She said, her voice a lower whimper. "Brose, we can do this, and then leave."

"Leave?" Face said, his brow knotting. "Leave what?"

Brose spared him a glance. "Leave the Navy," she said. "Natalie wants to go home, and I've had enough shit to last anyone a lifetime. But Liv wants to be reinstated. She was dishonorably discharged two years ago, and she's been going crazy to get her name cleared."

"I heard 'bout that," BA said at once. "Some gal killed her brother? That right?"

"She didn't kill him!" Natalie said, her voice rising higher. "It was an accident! A mistake! She wouldn't...can't. Couldn't." The blonde took a shaking breath. Hannibal snorted to himself. All of them were crazy. This mission was impossible.

"You happy now, Hannibal?" Brose said, her voice wintery. "Hey, Nats, take a walk," Brose said quietly. The blonde stuffed her hand in her pockets and began pacing around the perimeter of the room, humming to herself. Brose turned to Hannibal. "Leave the past alone, okay? We promised Brose we'd stay with her until she gets reinstated, but Natalie..." She sighed. "Natalie has a family, okay? A kid. He's about six."

"Damn," Face said. "A kid? Where?"

"Living with her parents." Brose speared Hannibal with a glare. "We're going on this mission, Colonel Smith, because then everybody wins. Liv gets reinstated, Natalie goes home to her son, I get the hell outta the way and go down to Florida or someplace sunny. And you guys? I don't know what the hell you want, but you'll get it. Now, me and Natalie can get along fine, and Liv will too, but I swear to God, if you tell Kinnons to get another team, I'll stuff that fuckin' cigar so far down your throat you'll feel it burning in your gut. Savvy?"

Hannibal glowered at them. _Temperamental females, _he thought to himself. This mission was impossible, the terms uncertain, the target almost unattainable, the conditions unworkable. But they were the A Team.

And they specialized in the ridiculous.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Short chapter, I'm afraid, but hopefully you get a little more insight to Natalie. xD Kind of a random chapter at first, and my thoughts are a little scattered. But! Before you even tell me what you think, GO LOOK AT THIS FANTASTIC FANART! h t t p : / / b r o w s e . d e v I a n t a r t . c o m / ? q = k n o I r e & o r d e r = 9 & o f f s e t = 0 # / d 4 m z 1 8 m A picture of The B-Team by the talented Syrtis!_


	6. Chapter 6: Improving Communication

The steady drone of the plane's motor almost lulled Livvy into a light sleep. She was famous for those, back when she had been a Petty Officer. Her friends would be walking on eggshells around her, even when she appeared to be in a coma, for fear she'd open her eyes and reprimand them. Her charcoal eyes had a lot more life back then, and they had a narrow glint when she was satisfied, slanting them like a cat. Now her smirk was as rare as her smile, and Brose and Natalie would have paid dearly to see her do either of them. But despite the soothing hum of the plane, adrenaline still seared through her system, keeping her muscles taut despite the aching in her eyes and her bones. Brose was up front, probably sneaking a drink from either BA or Face; she was almost as good as Natalie when it came to conning people, as long as it was conning them out of a cigarette or a drink. Liv feared what her liver looked like by now. Natalie was up in the cockpit with Murdock, and it was probably due to her that the plane would tilt alarmingly, with no warning at all. Liv was hoping that they would stop, seeing as she was sketching the outlines of a plan on several sheets of paper and didn't want them to go skidding across the carpeted floor of the plane.

Just as she thought this, however, the plane's wings swooped to one side, sending not only her papers but also her open bottle of water flying. The water – one long liquid drip of fluid spattering across the pages – went rolling along the cabin, and her papers slid across the aisle. She swore under her breath and reached for the paper, only to see a foot stamp down on the plan. Her dark eyes flicked upwards, and her hand darted forward, but even her quick reflexes weren't quick enough to stop the big, calloused hand which snatched up her pages. Hannibal Smith, clouded in a plume of swirling blue smoke, his cigar held loosely between his fingers, picked up the paper and raised an eyebrow trying to decipher the chicken scratch which passed for handwriting. His brow furrowed, and she held out her hand, palm up, across the aisle. "Give it," She snapped.

"Your handwriting is terrible," He commented, passing the paper back to her. When she had settled into an aloof, insulted silence, he added, "And that plan won't work. You didn't add enough time for the guards to rotate around the southern corner."

With a low growl, she crumpled the page and tossed it over her shoulder. It boinked BA on the nose and he grumbled in his anesthetic-induced sleep, turning over a little. "Thank you," She hissed sarcastically. Then, to justify herself, "And I would have figured that out if you hadn't told me."

"Why is everything a competition with you?" He asked, looking at her with those quizzical blue eyes. They were darker now, perhaps from the dim lighting of the cabin or just his emotions, she couldn't tell. "We're supposed to be working _together_, Miss Marks. I'm willing to work with your team, but your attitude has no place here."

She didn't have much of an answer for that. "It's not a competition," She said icily. "I'm just trying to tell you that we're not all helpless females."

Strange as it sounded, she heard his smile before she saw it. "I've met Ambrosia, Miss Marks. Nobody can say that women are helpless after they meet her."

"Stop calling me Miss Marks," Liv said sourly. "I'm in civilian clothes, but my attitude is all SEAL. Don't ever forget it."

"Would you rather I call you Marks, as though I were your superior officer?" He asked, with a credible imitation of politeness and innocence. Not an easy combination for him.

"No!"

"Thought not," He said, taking a languid draw on his cigar. "What do you want me to call you?"

She sank a little lower in her seat, folding her arms tightly. "Just call me Liv. Everyone does."

"That's out. My ex wife was named Liz, it's too close."

"You were married?" She asked, quirking a brow and for once, seeming interested. At least, her hooded eyes seemed a little less imperious. He shrugged noncommittally.

"For two years. She couldn't take the lifestyle. It was very hush-hush, very quiet." His words sounded flat and rehearsed, as though he had said them to himself until they sounded warped and unreal. She glanced at him. Liv never apologized, it was never ingrained in her nature. When she was growing up, her father had once told her to apologize if the drew blood, but only if she threw the first punch. It stuck with her, marring her morals and allowing her to be a lot more waspish than normal people would feel comfortable with. So she didn't apologize for bringing up Hannibal's ex wife. But she seemed sorry.

Abruptly, she stuck her hand across the aisle. "I'm Olivia Marks. Nice to meet you."

It took him a moment to understand what she was doing, and then a slow smile spread around his cigar. His grip on her hand was rough and hard, swallowing her long fingers in his calloused palm. "Hannibal Smith. Glad to be working with you, Miss Olivia."

"Do you think we can work together?" She asked, her hooded eyes narrowing slightly. He expelled a line of blue smoke between his teeth.

"I think we can manage not to kill each other."

* * *

><p>God, he was <em>annoying<em>.

He probably would have appeared charming to any other woman on the planet, but to Brose he just made her want to knock one or two of those perfect teeth out of his head. If Brose hadn't spent so much time beating up things and learning how to con people from Natalie, she probably would have fallen for his grins and jokes as well. But Brose was Brose, and she didn't fall for anything, unless it was falling off a cliff. That she did for recreation. At any rate, she considered herself extremely serene for not drop-kicking the wavy haired man down the aisle and into BA's lap. Because she wanted to, very, very much. Two things kept her from enacting her fantasy: One, Liv would have her head on a platter and probably chew her a new one; two, Natalie could get extremely pissy when Brose beat people up. It wasn't Natalie's style – she preferred to sweet talk people out of danger zones before nailing them between the eyes with a slug from her Glock. Physical labor and hand-to-hand combat wasn't her thing, and she was trying to get Brose not to do it for fun. "It's one thing to slap people around on a job," She was fond of saying, "But when you just do it to get kicks, that borders on abuse."

That was usually when Brose would smack her on the back of the head, just to remind her how often she said that.

" –been there?" Face had said. Brose started, her knee jiggling, torn between saying something snide or being nice to get him to sneak a nip of her vodka out of Natalie's pocket.

"Sorry, what?" Brose said, turning to him. He had a scattering of freckles beneath his eyes, almost hidden beneath his scruff, and she wondered if they were more visible when he shaved and showered.

"I said, have you ever been to Paris? It's beautiful this time of year." He repeated, giving her that deadly wink-and-smile combination. Brose reined in her temper with a heroic effort.

"Yeah. Been there once or twice, on a job with Nats." She said gruffly, and then fished around in her pocket for her pack of cigarettes. It was only then that she remembered Liv had stamped them underneath her scuffed hunting boots, and her fingers snapped to fists. "Got a smoke on you?" She said, trying not to sound edgy. Face shook his head a little.

"Nah, I don't smoke." He answered, and then flicked a glance to her face. "She cut you off?"

Brose's fist tightened under her chin until her knuckles cracked. "Somethin' like that."

"She usually let you drink before missions?" Face asked, probing lightly. Brose looked at him, dark blue eyes hard as granite.

"None of your goddamn business." She said shortly.

"Okay, okay, easy, easy," Face said. "Just asking. Say, what as the wildest plan your boss ever came up with? I remember this one time, with Hannibal, when we were trying to get –"

"Look, Pretty-boy, I like you," Brose snarled, "And the only reason I don't rip off your limbs and stick them in new, interesting places, is because Liv said to get along with you guys. So you can either shut your face, or go get me my Jack Daniels from Natalie. Clear?"

Face settled back, his eyes closing. "You might want to try sleeping without booze in your system. Trust me, it feels a lot better afterwards."

"Not with me," She said lowly. "Not when you've been in my head."

She stayed here, her leg jittering anxiously, her fingers shaking from withdrawal. Face had either gone to sleep or was ignoring her – A small part of her, a sane part, told her that at least he had stood up to her. Not many people did. They usually looked at her lithe arms and ruthless eyes and wet themselves, but Face had refused to get her whiskey back. Brose sat back angrily, her trembling hand automatically going to her mouth to feel the long, slender roll of a cigarette between her lips. The inner skin of her first two fingers were red and shiny from the heat of the smokes, and she always woke every morning with a ragged, wet cough. Her hard lifestyle was taking a toll on her, and she knew it, but she'd rather have the short, sick life than the sticky nightmares.

"What do you want to forget?" Face asked suddenly, his eyes still closed. His tone, for once, was serious.

She lay back, blinking, trying to still her jangled nerves and stop the low crack of a headache which was building in ferocity at her hairline. "Two years ago, we got caught in open fire with the rest of our team," She said softly. "Liv's brother, Jerry, was gunned down. He was Natalie's fiancée, the father of her kid. My dad was the other one. He took a bullet to the ribs and died two weeks later from infection." Her words were low, quiet, and final. "It was one of Liv's plans, but I screwed up. I overestimated the time between the drop off and the explosion, thought we had more time than we did. We had to hustle out of there, and we couldn't see the snipers on the rooftops. I keep going over in my head how I could have done better, what would have happened, but no matter how it works out, one of us would have died."

Face stayed still, just listening.

"I swore I'd either leave the Navy or kill myself. I did neither. Didn't have the courage to do the first and was too chickenshit to do the second." She pressed her fingers to her head, lightning streaking across her vision as she tried to blot out her headache. "That's why."

"The whiskey won't help," He said after a long moment. "I tried it. I lost my sister about ten years ago. Was stationed overseas, missed her funeral. I wasn't there to tell her it'd be okay, say goodbye one last time."

"What pulled you out of it?" Brose asked, turning her head to look at him. His blue eyes seemed distant.

"Hannibal. He told me I could either dwell on the past, keep running over my memories like a sore tooth, or I could keep moving forward. Memories, he said, are like scars – they never fade entirely and they still hurt every once in a while. But they're always there to remind me of something." He said lowly. "And the only thing I found that made me feel like a different person was getting shit-faced in some bar, waking up the next morning in my own puke. I kept doing this, for about six months straight, and then came to one morning in a bathtub of freezing water with Hannibal looking at me. He said he needed Face, not the bar scum I was, and he said the Ranger in me was trying to get out, I just wasn't letting it. We visited my sister's grave and we kept going."

"You just went on? Forgot about her?" Brose said, the words sticking in her throat.

"No. Because he was right, about memories being like scars. You don't forget. You learn. Sometimes the lesson is painful, and we hate it, but we always learn."

* * *

><p>"You know how you say 'hello' to other planes?" Murdock was asking her.<p>

She looked at him, and then asked very seriously: "Pee out the window?"

The two of them cracked up, causing the controls in Murdock's hands to list sharply to the left and causing the plane to dip. She was wearing his brown koala hat, and looking adorably silly. He was wearing a red baseball cap on his head, and he was slapping the control panel with his hands, still laughing. When they had quieted down, he said, "Nah. You tip the plane wings side to side."

"So we've been real friendly to the birds out here, then?" Natalie asked. This called for another bout of laughter.

"Hey, how old's your kid?" Murdock asked, sounding a little interested. Natalie brightened.

"Coming up on six. He's a big little boy. At least, he looks it." She went from delighted to depressed in a split second. "I haven't seen him in, like, _forever_."

"Happened to me once," Murdock said lightly.

"Lost your kid?" Natalie said, her green eyes filling with tears. She put a hand on his arm. He shrugged.

"Nope. I mean, I had a girlfriend who wanted kids, but she was crazy." Murdock answered.

"What happened?"

"She got her kids, just not by me."

"That's sad."

"Not when you consider she looked like a goat."

Another long round of laughter. "Goats can be kind of cute," Natalie protested.

"Have you ever kissed a woman with a moustache?"

"You have bad taste in women."

"She was a very macho lady. Real high class, in Sicily."

"You've been to Sicily?" Natalie asked.

"Oh, sure. Lots of times. Met Hannibal in Sicily."

"Really? That's cool."

"Where'd you meet your boss?"

"First, she's not a boss. And second, she was my bunkmate. She had a terrible reputation."

"Oh, a gunslinger, mm?"

"No. I mean, yeah, she was, but I mean she had a terrible reputation for leaving her bunk messy. And I had a perfect record for inspection."

"Hannibal still runs inspections."

"Really? Liv doesn't. She says they're too 'industrialized'."

"That's probably 'cause she still fails 'em."

And so, communication persisted, in spite of all odds. Liv and Hannibal – who had begun calling her Ollie, in an effort to be different – were discussing plans. Face and Brose were sitting in silence. Murdock and Natalie were laughing together.

BA?

Who knew what the hell he was doing.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Gahhh. My sniffles turned into a cold, which I'm currently fighting off. Please review! Not sure how this chapter came out._


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